Safe Without
by Bespectacled
Summary: Cora reflects on her daughters, especially her youngest. Incidental Sybil/Branson


A mother always knows.

She knew that Edith and Sibyl both presumed that Mary was the focus of her attention, and she could see the way that they both responded to it. Edith fought, began screaming for attention in the only way she could think of; she was all too prepared to go to extremes to pull the spotlight from her sister, with little care for what it may do the family.

Sibyl seemed to almost relish the distraction from her behaviour – she was allowed to cultivate schemes and ideas that would have otherwise been quashed. She had ended up with projects, with political opinions, with schemes and ideas.

Cora wondered whether it would have been different, if she'd paid more attention (she was fairly certain that Edith would have always reacted in the way she did; if it hadn't been Matthew, it would've been someone else) – whether Sibyl would have been less politically inclined.

Not that the politics were the problem.

The problem wasn't something Cora thought that Sibyl herself was aware of yet.

The problem was Branson.

Cora could see that the young man was carrying a torch for his young mistress. She could see that he saw in her a kindred spirit, and that he clearly enjoyed her conversation and her company.

She didn't find that surprising – in many ways, she would've been surprised if he hadn't taken a shine to her.

But if she'd been a little more vigilant...

Sybil's affections for the chauffeur had become painfully clear. She hadn't seemed to realise them herself, but it had come to a head after the accident, at even the slightest hint at Branson being removed.

Cora had made a mental note to keep an eye on her daughter, to ensure that this was nipped in the bud, that it was not allowed to blossom – but everything else had happened. Matthew and Mary. The baby –

The baby.

If she'd seen Branson take her daughter's hand, she would have probably fired him on the spot – there was an idle crush, and then there was doing something about it.

But, of course, she hadn't seen it. And the announcement had been made, and everything changed.

Later that evening, she had sat with her daughters, seen the worry etched on Mary's face, on Sibyl's, on Edith's. Mary had excused herself, wanting to be alone. Edith had slipped away, probably to think things through.

Sibyl had remained, seated beside her mother, uncharacteristically quiet, before gently placing a hand on her mother's arm – there was something she had to tell her, something she didn't want her father to know about, she wasn't certain he'd understand.

Sibyl spoke with a nervousness, an uncertainty. She explained to her mother in hushed tones of the way she got on better with their driver than any other man she'd encountered, that she found herself looking forward to seeing him, that he had taken her hand that afternoon – and that the contact had been the best thing she had ever experienced. That when he'd begun to speak, she'd thought her heart might explode, that she wished she could've known what he'd been about to say, before Mrs Hughes interrupted.

Cora made a mental note to speak to Mrs Hughes, ask for her take on the events, thank her for her foresight.

Sybil had looked at her mother, fear in her eyes, beginning to talk about war, about young men being taken to the battlefields, and her voice began to break as she asked if Branson may be required to go.

Cora had taken her daughter's hand, squeezed it gently. If Sybil had confided this before the news of war, then she would have told her very simply that it would be better for her not to see Branson, that perhaps he should be transferred elsewhere to save them both from heartbreak.

But there had been too much loss already, and there would be loss to come. Sibyl, despite her idealism, was a sensible girl, and she must have known that there wasn't a future for herself and Branson. She didn't need to hear it from her mother – she needed her mother to squeeze her hand, give her some comfort.

There was uncertainty, when it came to her youngest.

Mary, she was certain, would have ended up entangled in something regardless; it was her way, the girl was passionate, tempestuous and unable to do as she was told. She'd get herself into trouble, but she'd get herself out again – Cora took pride and despaired of her in equal measure.

Edith would have followed in her big sister's footsteps – that was all it was, all it had ever been. At some point it had stopped being flattery and had become obsession, wanting her sister's playthings, and then wanting them broken when they didn't come to her. The girl was bright, cunning, persuasive – there was such potential here that she simply wasn't using (or rather, wasn't using in the right way). Cora could only hope that she'd work these things out, that something would happen to stop her from seeing herself in her sister's shadow (then again, maybe Cora herself needed to do something about that).

Sibyl, though.

Cora could never have seen this coming. She could have expected her daughter to have strong opinions, to read, to fight against them in a more intellectual way – but she had expected her youngest to demand the chance to have an education, to go to university. Or perhaps a career. She had expected rebellion from Sibyl, definitely, a cry for independence.

She hadn't expected this, her youngest daughter in tears over the possible death of a chauffeur who had held her hand.

It was an odd process of letting go, of realising that she didn't know everything about all of her daughters, that they were encountering problems she was unable to help them with, that they would have to find their own way.

That a mother didn't always know.


End file.
